This was the anticipation of getting a chance to fulfill my need to be watched again. It had been so long that I was already fantasizing about what I might wear on my first day to work, what would be professional, but allow things to get a little heated should I find the right camera at the right time.
It wasn't where my head should have been, of course. I was practical—and broke—enough to know I couldn't screw around at work. Not really. I needed the money, which meant I needed to keep the job for a while.
I wasn't going to ruin it for myself.
But if I was supposed to be doing manual labor, I figured it wouldn't be outside the realm of possibilities that I might get hot and fan the air into my shirt, maybe accidentally lifting it a bit too high. Or reaching down to fix the vacuum cord into the little holders when my skirt was just a tad short.
Nothing crazy.
Nothing that would get me fired.
I was just going to tease the lines of propriety.
Just a little game.
Just something to give me a bit of a fix.
If he had cameras, he likely wanted a show.
Who better than me to give it to him?
Two
Wynn
My life was a series of hemming and hawing every single article of clothing I put on until seventy-five percent of my closet was strewn around my bedroom, and I inevitably circled right on back to my first choice to begin with, slipping it on, chiding myself for being so damn indecisive and such a chronic over-thinker.
If I added up how much time I wasted on this particular cycle, I would likely have the time I always lacked to get my hair and face in order.
I was rushing out the door with my mascara tube in my hand, swiping a lightly tinted balm to my lips as I said a little prayer that my hair would dry fully by the time I got to my appointment.
In the end, just as in the beginning, I had settled on a pair of basic black slacks I had bought for an occasional bartending gig I landed when a friend of mine needed an extra hand with her shift. They were hot and rode up in weird places, but I figured they were the most professional pair of bottoms I had in my closet. I paired the slacks with a simple deep hunter green long-sleeved, button-up blouse, leaving the top button open, but no more. And, lastly, I had on a pair of black ballet flats since I figured you didn't want to show up for a job interview that would involve some light labor dressed like you were seeking a corner office.
First impressions mattered.
I really wanted to make a good one.
Because one look at my bank account that morning while I ate off-brand cereal and questionable milk made me realize I had to get this job. I needed the money. Even if I managed to pull all my little side gigs and sell a painting or two this week, I would still be in the red.
I had to nail this.
So I had to look the part.
I lucked out being stuck behind a train for a few minutes, letting me get my lashes lacquered, inspecting my teeth, popping in a mint, and spritzing on my perfect work perfume—a light vanilla and rose scent that not a single person I'd ever come across had found offensive—then finally made my way across town.
Into, you know, the nice area of it.
Where every house was a sprawling estate that would likely cost a couple million very easily.
None of them, however, came anywhere close to the one I turned my car into.
The one with the custom paver driveway that likely set it back a cool couple hundred grand. The landscaping with its intricately shaped bushes and hedges likely cost a small fortune to maintain as well, along with the sprawling lawn that was likely bright green all summer, and the pristine, gleaming pool I could see a sliver of in a glass room attached to the back of the house.
All those people—gardeners, lawn service, pool guy—I would be in charge of managing.
It was a foreign concept but one that felt interesting and wholly doable.
I mean, I could walk six dogs at once. I could be a shot girl to a group of gross, horny old guys who wanted to do body shots off of me and licked a little more than they should have. I could babysit kids and help elderly people run their errands, and teach pissed off teenagers how to paint in their forced art therapy classes.
I could do all of that.
In the same week.
I could absolutely do this.
I parked my car, inwardly worried it might leak something onto the expensive driveway and that I might be expected to shell out money I didn't have to replace the pavers, took a deep breath, and made my way up toward the towering white stucco home.